


Homecoming

by pragmatist



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pragmatist/pseuds/pragmatist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series.  Lizzie is living in her own place in San Francisco, they have been a couple for several months.  Darcy returns from a business trip late at night, and she waits at his place.</p><p>Basically, just some plotless smut.  I’m sorry.  No, not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Dammit, 1 a.m. smutty fic bunnies! Stop hopping around and let me go to sleep.
> 
> So, yeah, this. No point, really, just some sexytimes.

She leaves her keys right in the middle of the countertop, on the island in his kitchen, where she thinks he will notice them.  She can tell the exact moment that he does.

There are several minutes of noises – the door opening, his keys jingling, footfalls, thumps as his bags hit the floor, a cupboard door being opened and the fridge water dispenser humming a stream of liquid into a glass – then suddenly, the sounds all halt, as if frozen.   There is one more soft clink as his cup taps the marble counter, and his shoed footsteps and the rustle of clothing get louder as he swiftly makes his way down the hall.

She follows his approach with her ears, senses when he pauses in the doorway of his bedroom, knows that he is standing there studying her.   Her back is to him when he sits down of his side of the bed; his mattress and bed frame are such high quality that they do not even creak or squeak as he bends to take off his shoes, removes his jacket and tie.  She hasn’t stirred yet, and he probably is being stealthy because he fears waking her. 

He groans as he settles down onto the bed – it is, after all, very late and he is exhausted and jetlagged.  He shifts closer, and adjusts so that he is curled around behind her.  The weariness radiates off him in waves as his arm circles her waist.  She finally responds, turns around so that her face is pressed against his chest and her leg hooks over his.  He sighs and pulls her tighter.

Rather than falling back asleep, now that he is safely home, now that she is secure in his arms, her mind races and her pulse quickens.  He has been away for five nights, and her body craves his.  She pushes back from him and scoots up so that her face is next to his on her pillow.

His mouth is warm and soft with sleepiness, and she can taste a vague, not-unpleasant peanut flavor on his tongue.  The kiss starts lazy, but heightens quickly as his hand cradles the back of her head to press deeper together.  Her fingers deftly navigate the buttons of his dress shirt, and move down to the fastenings on his trousers.  He is already straining against the fabric, and he only allows a few passes of her hand over him before he breaks away to shed his clothes. 

She slips out of her panties and tank top, so that when he returns to her, it is a collision of warm skin.  He shifts over her, and her legs fall open to welcome him.  He thrusts into where she is slick and ready for him, and their bodies find a frenetic, clashing tempo.  It is uncoordinated and primal from almost a week without, but they remember each other, and even though the rhythm is messy, it is uniquely _theirs_. 

Her fingers knead his back, and she notices that his bottom three ribs are more pronounced than they ought to be.  Even though she is in the middle of having sex with him, she has a rush of protectiveness towards him, wants to remind him to eat properly, tell him that a tiny bag of airline peanuts does not suffice as dinner.  She pictures herself setting a big tower of waffles, drenched in his favorite organic blueberry syrup, in front of him tomorrow morning.  The mental image soothes her worry, enough that she is able to return to the matter at hand, and she digs her fingertips into those too-defined ribs.

He grinds against her, tilts his hips in a calculated, deliberate way, and it does not take long before she falls off the edge.  She presses the soles of her feet against his calves as she rides out her orgasm, curling her toes against him and scraping along his leg hair.  He attends to her until her crescendo starts coming down, until she pants out a gust of breath signaling the downward slope of her climax.  At that sign, he cups his hand tightly to her ass, and drives into her to find his own shuddering release.   

Still quivering and gasping, he rolls to his side and pulls her along with him. “I am sorry about that,” he says into her shoulder.

“Hmm? You are?  Why?  I’m not.”

“It was not very polite.  I did not even say ‘hello’ first.”

She laughs in response.  “You did say ‘hello,’ you just didn’t use words.”  She kisses his jaw for emphasis.  “I love you. And I’ll be happy with that kind of ‘hello’ anytime.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tried something a little different with the writing; tell me if you notice and if it's weird...


End file.
